


First Taste

by kmo



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, First Meetings, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-04
Updated: 2015-04-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 06:00:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3680610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Odd how meeting with a new psychiatrist so resembled a blind date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Taste

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Попробовать на вкус](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11610864) by [Fandom_Medic_2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Medic_2017/pseuds/Fandom_Medic_2017)



> An easter-egg I rescued from the abandoned fic drawer.

Hannibal was lingering over dessert, the sharp sweet bite of brandy on his tongue when he first heard her name. He had just enjoyed a delicious meal at the home of Drs. Charles and Vivian Lambert. Charles was a fellow psychiatrist, a respected colleague, and his wife was a talented neurosurgeon. They had known each other since medical school. Hannibal supposed he would have considered Charles a friend, if he were the type of man who had friends.

“You seem pensive, Hannibal. Penny for your thoughts?” Charles asked.

“I have a favor to ask of you…though I find myself hesitant to ask.”

Charles smiled, an easy, patrician All-American smile. “How can I help?”

Hannibal took a sip of brandy; not nervous, never nervous, merely uncertain. “You know I greatly value your opinion…professionally as well as personally. I am considering resuming psychotherapy and was hoping you could refer someone.”

Vivian piped in. “You were seeing Engelmann weren’t you? Shameful the way he treated you all—just popping off to Buenos Aires without so much as a week’s notice. It’s criminal.”

“Yes, it certainly was.” Dr. Engelmann, his former psychiatrist, had not in fact eloped to Argentina with his secretary as many suspected, but his car had been found in the Long Term Parking of Dulles International Airport. His tongue and brain had found their way into Hannibal’s larder, where they served a greater purpose then they ever had during their many tedious sessions.  

Charles turned to him thoughtfully. “Does it have to be an MD or will a PhD suffice? Any particular training you’re looking for?”

“I’d prefer to see a fellow psychiatrist, if at all possible. As far as methods go, I suppose I would like someone who isn’t too narrowly focused on one methodology, who has kept up with the field and is open to new and unorthodox treatments.” 

“So, someone like yourself,” Vivian quipped.

Hannibal chuckled. “Well, yes.”

“There aren’t many psychiatrists left who prefer the analyst’s couch to the prescription pad, you know.” Charles stroked his blonde beard and frowned. “How about Bertrand Steinhardt?”

Vivian tsked. “Too Freudian. Collingsworth?”

“Too old. She just told me she’s retiring." 

“Singh?”

“Too boring. Hmmm, what about Andrews?”

“Gloria has the temperament of a kindergarten teacher. Hannibal would eat her alive,” Vivian said. Hannibal hid his smile behind his white cloth napkin.

Charles looked lost in thought when a dreamy expression came into his eyes. A slight blush crept over his pale face. “Bedelia Du Maurier,” he said.

Vivian’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know—how do you feel about Hitchcock bottle blondes, Hannibal?”

“I don’t follow,” he said. 

“Ignore her.” Charles exchanged a slightly annoyed look with his wife. “Bedelia specializes in grief and trauma. She’s brilliant, elegant…almost won a MacArthur last year for her work with the 9/11 widows or so I heard. She’s been on the faculty at Hopkins a few years, but teaches rarely. She’s mostly focused on her research and her practice.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever met her,” Hannibal said, his curiosity piqued.

“That’s because she’s anti-social,” Vivian said.

“Aloof,” Charles corrected.

Vivian sipped at her brandy venomously. “You men are all the same. A silky blouse and a flash of leg and she’s aloof and mysterious instead of socially awkward. And you can’t _almost_ be a MacArthur genius, Charles. You either are or you aren’t. And she isn’t.”

Hannibal was surprised at Vivian’s blatant jealousy toward his potential future psychiatrist. It bordered on rudeness and Hannibal had to remind himself that Vivian’s mind was better occupied in scientific research than sautéing with butter and garlic in his kitchen.

Charles ignored his wife’s outburst. “Vivian’s objections aside, I think you and Dr. Du Maurier would be well suited to one another. Would you like her contact information? I’m sure I have it here somewhere.”

A woman who could draw Charles’ admiration and provoke Vivian’s sexual and professional jealousy would be formidable indeed. “Yes, please.”

***** 

Hannibal felt a strange frisson of anticipation as he followed Dr. Du Maurier into her home. The mid-century modern style of her house nearly led him to believe that Charles’ referral was a mistake, he could not possibly share himself with someone whose tastes differed so drastically from his own. But he remembered the cultured tone of the woman on the phone and the numerous articles she had published on trauma. Dr. Du Maurier possessed an insight bordering on genius on paper—he was curious to see if she lived up to it in the flesh.

The soft elegance of her dress and her home’s immaculate décor reassured Hannibal that Charles had not led him astray. Odd how meeting with a new psychiatrist so resembled a blind date.  When they reached the sunken living room where Dr. Du Maurier saw her patients he asked, “Where would you like me to sit?”

“Wherever you would be most comfortable.”

He looked at the composition of the room with artist’s eyes and selected the chair facing the large floor-to-ceiling windows. Dr. Du Maurier sat opposite him and he was rewarded with the sight of sunlight streaming behind her, her face lit up like a Botticelli Venus, burning bright.

“Shall we begin with the most obvious question—why are you seeking psychotherapy, Hannibal?” she asked, her voice low and calm.

“I wish to know myself. Is that not reason enough?”

If she was surprised by his answer she did not let it show. “You feel you don’t know yourself already?”

“As human beings we are in a constant state of change and renewal. Our body’s cells renew themselves continually until the moment of our death. Each new interaction and experience changes us.”

She pursed her lips in thought, then said, “That is true, though some would say the core of who we are remains unchanged from day to day, especially after we have reached adulthood. Tell me more about the changes you are experiencing…”

The minutes of their first hour passed like seconds. Conversing with her was an elegant _pas de deux_ , like fencing with a ghost. She was smooth and elusive, impossible to pin down, and more than a match for him. She did not fall in to any of the conversational traps Hannibal set for her, had none of the peacocking self-importance he had seen with other psychiatrists. Neither did she ooze the cloying affirmation so many therapists thought their patients wanted. It was like slipping into a bath where the water was exactly the same temperature as his own skin. Like the children’s story, Dr. Du Maurier was neither too warm nor too cold, neither too hard nor too soft; she was just right.

All too soon, Dr. Du Maurier checked her filigreed wristwatch and announced that they would have to resume their conversation next week.

“Bedelia Du Maurier,” he enunciated carefully, savoring every syllable. “I say your name and it tastes sweet on my tongue, like candied violets or ice wine. You are not what I expected.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” she said, perfectly poised.

“And me? What do you taste when you say my name?”

Hesitancy pierced her professional demeanor.  “I can’t…”

“You must,” he cajoled. “Humor me.”

For a moment he was certain she would refuse to indulge him in this parlor game. To his surprise, she closed her eyes, the tiniest of sly smiles written on her lips. When she opened them, her smile was gone. “Strange meat,” she said, pronouncing it like a clinical diagnosis.

Hannibal nodded appreciatively and knew he would never leave her.


End file.
